


Dislocation

by naboojakku



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Animal Crossing References, Animal Crossing kink??, Child Neglect, Complete, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Dominant Kylo Ren, Drug Abuse, F/M, Fucking, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kidnapping, Kylo Ren Has Issues, Kylo is 36, Memory Loss, Missionary Position, Muteness, No Plot/Plotless, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Older Man/Younger Woman, Orphan Rey (Star Wars), POV Rey (Star Wars), POV Third Person, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poverty, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recreational Drug Use, Rey is 15, Rey is mute, Rough Sex, Rutting, Sign Language, Size Difference, Soft Porn, Tattooed Kylo Ren, Touch-Starved, Underage Drug Use, Vaginal Fingering, confidently acknowledging my acnh and nintendo switch kinks, darkreylo and i are in engaged in an inspiration-ception, dealer Unkar Plutt, dubcon, noncon, pussy slapping, she really does love her dictionary, sofa sex, supplier Kylo Ren, tattooed Kylo is yum, unhappily ever after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:09:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29584932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naboojakku/pseuds/naboojakku
Summary: All Rey wants to do is play Animal Crossing, but drug dealer Kylo Ren has other ideas.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 30
Kudos: 144





	Dislocation

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [this is where we come alive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192078) by [darkreylo (aelins)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelins/pseuds/darkreylo). 



> pls forget that I’ve included animal crossing as a plot device in at least 2 other fics 😬

Rey prefers to consider her not-talking a choice. It's easier to get through the day with that belief in mind. 

It's mid-afternoon on a Wednesday. Maybe Tuesday. At this point it hardly matters, but she does like to watch the new episodes of _Teen Titans Go!_ when they air on Thursday nights. The sky's cloudy, or it might just be smog. The kitchen window's cracked, and outside smells like gasoline and sewage. Still better than the stale air of the condo though. 

For now, she stares into the clunky old refrigerator. Two containers of old Chinese food on the top shelf. A glass jar of strawberry jam in the middle. Cheese residue splattered on the sides. A carton of spoiled whole milk on the door shelf. Her options are— Well, limited might be an understatement. 

There’s a nasty smell emanating from the depths of the fridge, so she shuts the door before it gets stuck in her nose. If she had a voice, she might complain. If she had a voice, she might mutter curses under her breath like Unkar when he's too drunk to realize he's speaking aloud. If she had a voice, she could go to the nearest convenience store and _do_ something about it. 

Maybe. But probably not. Unkar would kick her scrawny ass if she so much as looked at the front door. Besides, she has no idea how to get to a convenience store or read a map. 

Whatever. Not like she even owns a pair of shoes to get there. 

Rey cranes her neck back, wincing at the cricks in her neck—air mattresses are, unsurprisingly, more _air_ than _mattress_ —and examines the ceiling. Fractured: _noun,_ meaning "the breaking of a hard object or material." Synonyms: cracked, splintered, chipped. It's also messy from unfiltered smoke and grease splatter. There’s something moving up there, too. A spider? Or just an ant. 

(She's actually terrified of ants. They _bite_. They _swarm._ They're genuine monsters in miniature.)

With a disgruntled sigh, Rey curls her toes against the cold linoleum. No socks again. Her last pair simply dissolved off her feet like cotton candy. She wore them for so long, so many weeks in a row, that the threads simply gave up. Sometimes, in her worst moments, she wishes she could do the same. 

With no food in the kitchen—the edible kind, anyway—she pads into the living room, ignoring her growling stomach. She knocks her knuckles on her belly button: an invitation to shut up, which her stomach dutifully ignores. Her gaze sweeps past the cluttered mess in one corner—broken electronic parts Unkar has been planning to resell for months—and over to the sofa. Unsightly: _adjective,_ meaning "unpleasant to look at; ugly." Lumpy, brown, but soft. See also: repellent, disagreeable, unlovely.

 _Unlovely._

She shudders and bunches her shoulders up to her ears. It’s not exactly cold in the apartment—it’s the end of April, early spring—but the heater hasn’t worked since the holidays, and even months later she now struggles to wipe away the memory of those unbearable hypothermia nights. 

Blue lips and toes and fingers, chattering teeth, visible clouds in front of her face every time she exhaled. Unkar was rarely home then, so she could pile on all the (threadbare, unwashed) blankets in the apartment. But sometimes even that wasn’t enough. She would often fall asleep convinced she wouldn’t wake again. 

Sniffling—she’s been fighting off a cold for days now—Rey perches on the far right cushion of the sofa. It’s her favorite spot. Her air mattress creaks and groans whenever she so much as breathes too deeply, but the sofa cradles her like a loved one. It’s soft and warm and comfortable, and if Unkar drops off to sleep while she’s still awake, she’ll often spend the night in the living room, bundled up with blankets and hunkered down in the familiar indentation she’s made in the cushions. 

She eyes her beloved dictionary, which lies on a slanted bookshelf across the living room. When Unkar's around, she doesn't touch it. If he knew she cared for something as "stupid" as a book, he'd find a way to destroy it just to hurt her. So instead she tosses it to the floor, tears at the pages, and leaves waterstains on the cover so Unkar won't notice it's in use. He can't take it away if he considers it beneath his notice. 

Her fingers drift to her throat. It would be nice to speak, but silence is easier. People seem to expect less of her, and they don’t bother her with small talk or invasive questions. But sometimes she resents the assumption that she’s stupid, dull-witted, “missing a few screws.” Unkar’s clients will talk about her as if she’s not there. 

“You consider it yet?”

“She’s too thin. Look at her.”

“Not too young though. Perfect age.”

“Put some meat on those bones, chunk her up a little, then come see me. I tell you, there’s already a lot of interest.”

A grunt.

“I’ll need to test her out first, of course.”

“Fine.”

Conversation flows over and around her. Through her, like she’s mist and their words are heat-seeking missiles, disintegrating her atoms to gaseous matter. _Apparently,_ if her vocal chords don’t work, neither must her hearing. 

She doesn’t usually care what these men have to say when they Conduct Business—“ounces” and “payoffs” and “turn-around”—but when they speak of her (never _to_ her), there’s an unsettling undercurrent that often sets her on edge. She doesn’t understand what they mean when they talk about her age or her boniness. That’s not her fault, anyway. If Unkar actually fed her every once in a while, she might not have this problem. 

She’s squinting at a row of tiny bugs as they march in line across the dirty carpet—definitely ants—when the front door bangs open and Unkar sails through. She instinctively cringes into the sofa, hands cradling her elbows. He looks angry. “Pissed off,” as their blunt neighbor Maz would say. 

His expression is thunderous, and he doesn’t acknowledge her as he storms across the room and disappears into the kitchen. There’s sudden, loud clanking, what sounds like pots and pans shoved to and fro, irritated grunting and cursing. Rey huddles into the cushions, peeking nervously at the open doorway. What’s he mad about now? Could be any number of things. If she just stays still and quiet, he probably won’t hit her. 

Probably.

“ _Dammit_!” Unkar swears, and there’s a jarring crash. He must kick something across the kitchen—metal squeals over the linoleum before thumping against the far wall. 

Finally, he reappears in the doorway and throws a small, rectangular object across the room. Her hands fly up instinctively to shield her face. It lands face-down at the foot of the sofa. 

“Play with that,” he orders, wiping greasy sweat from his reddened face. Then he’s gone again.

Rey’s lips edge into a smile. She eagerly reaches for the game console and settles it in her lap. It’s her Nintendo Switch Lite. Coral pink. No wonder Unkar was making so much noise. This is one of the only precious items in the house. He hides it under the sink cabinet most of the time and brings it out when he wants her to stay occupied. Usually this means he’s about to Conduct Business.

Coral pink. Rey _still_ can’t believe it. As she clicks to the main screen, she recalls the moment she saw it for the first time. She doesn’t go to school, and in fact rarely leaves the house at all, but she’s occasionally allowed internet access. Back in March, as she mindlessly scrolled through Amazon wishing she could “Add to Cart” everything she liked, all the ads showed a new gaming console called the Nintendo Switch Lite. A small, handheld gaming device, it came in four colors: green, blue, yellow, and pink. 

She wanted one so badly, it wasn't so much an ache in her chest as a bonfire. All the colors were bright and appealing like block candy, especially the pink one. Pink makes her feel good. Pink makes her happy. 

Precious: _adjective,_ meaning "of great value, not to be wasted or treated carelessly." See also: invaluable, priceless, dear. 

When Unkar threw the device at her that first day—he’s always throwing things, come to think of it—she couldn’t believe her eyes. Obviously, he didn’t care about the color. It just so happened to be the one he grabbed when he and his associates were robbing a Walmart.

Rey is well aware he uses it to keep her quiet. Like someone who plies their over-enthusiastic dog with toys and beef bones to stop them attacking guests. But it doesn’t matter. The Switch might be the only thing she’s ever truly loved, aside from her dictionary. Maybe that’s sad and pathetic and stupid. But hey, according to Unkar, so’s her life. 

_Animal Crossing: New Horizons_ is the only game available to play. She taps on the screen and smiles as her island slides into view. It’s spring there too, and everything’s in full bloom. Pink cherry blossom trees, clear skies, tulips and hyacinths and pansies. The colors are so vivid she might almost believe they’re real. 

So far, in the past month since release, she’s logged four hundred hours. At first she was obsessed with fishing and bug-hunting. Then she got really into buying items from Nook’s Cranny. She scrubbed her island clean from top-to-bottom and started from scratch. It’s only about a quarter decorated, but she suspects she’ll have plenty of time over the coming months. 

Rey hums to herself as her mini-me checks the mailbox. She has a gift from her in-game “Mom” and a letter from a villager. In the kitchen, Unkar talks loudly on the phone. His voice is guttural and naturally slurred, so understanding him is difficult. She’s used to it, though, so it’s easy for her to tune him out. 

Some time passes. Usually, Rey has to depend on the shifting light of the sky to determine just how much. There are no clocks in the house, and most of the electronics are broken or dead. Makes time-keeping an unpredictable game. But now she has the Switch console, and she can check every minute if she wants. An hour passes, then two. She decimates part of her island in order to build it anew.

In the middle of snorkeling for seashells, Unkar storms back into the living room. He never simply walks, and he certainly never runs, but he does storm impressively. It’s intimidating, at any rate. 

“That thing charged enough?” he grunts, hands on his meaty hips, towering over her. 

Rey glances at the battery icon. It’s still three-quarters full. She nods. 

Unkar sniffs sharply, sucking back mucus. “Good. My supplier’s comin’ over soon. We got business, so I don’t wanna hear from you. No distractions, a’ight?” 

She nods again and looks back down, but this isn’t enough for him. Impatient, he waves a hand over the screen, snapping his fingers. She exhales quietly and meets his ugly pig eyes. 

“I said you understand me? No distractions, no fuckin’ interruptions. I needa look good in front of this guy. He’s big-time.” 

Rey dips her head in a slow nod, face serious. Evidently satisfied she understands the gravity of the situation, he grunts again and lumbers back into the kitchen, shoving a desk chair out of his path. 

She rolls her eyes at his retreating back. _“I need to look good.”_ For a man like him, that’s impossible on every level. He walks around with gigantic sweat stains ringing his armpits and considers it respectable. The condo is a shithole. His hair is greasy and unkempt. 

_Nasty man,_ she thinks, wrinkling her nose. _Nasty little pig-eyed creep._

She falls effortlessly back into the world of _Animal Crossing_ and doesn’t notice the new arrival until the front door bangs shut behind him. Her head jerks up, eyes immediately seeking out the disruption. This particular part of her island renovation is tricky—lots of tiny details, careful furniture positioning—and involves major concentration on her end. Just like Unkar—though she hates to admit they have _anything_ in common—she doesn’t appreciate interruptions.

Her irritated expression falters. Oh. This must be the "big-time" supplier. 

He’s a large man—scary, actually. Disheveled dark hair, shaggy around his ears. Sleek black clothes. Tattoos on his arms and neck, peeking around the edges of his collar. There’s a livid scar on his face. Probably not recent, but not years old either. People in Unkar’s line of work aren’t exactly risk-free, and even her guardian has a few knife marks on his pudgy stomach from deals gone bad. 

Thug: _noun,_ meaning "a violent person, especially a criminal." See also: ruffian, hoodlum, gangster. 

However, unlike Unkar and despite the ugliness of the scar, this man definitely won his fight. In fact, Rey suspects he’s won every fight he’s ever been in. He hasn’t yet moved or opened his mouth, but his presence alone is enough to shrink the room, make it suffocating. 

His eyes, twin pools of ink, are fixed on her, devoid of feeling. Rey twitches but pretends she doesn’t notice him and goes back to her game. Even so, she feels his gaze like a physical weight. The intensity of it scares her. Well, _everything_ scares her, but especially this too big, too quiet man. He's...not right. That's the only way she can explain it.

He seems vaguely familiar, too, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. It’s been a while since a supplier has stopped by the apartment. Unkar’s definitely met with at least two others in the past year. Maybe this man's been here before, sans scar, and she just doesn’t remember. 

Her memory is notoriously fuzzy. Unkar’s always berating her for forgetting simple things, like where they store the toilet paper. When they have it, of course. She’s used old socks and dish towels more often than she’ll ever admit. 

Unkar appears in the doorway to the kitchen, red-faced and huffing. He seems frazzled. “Oh! You’re here.” 

The man doesn’t speak. Rey narrows her eyes at the Switch screen, intent on becoming invisible. Sometimes she gets so sucked into the game that an entire day might pass before she straightens from her cramped spot on the couch. (Well, fine, maybe not a _whole_ day. As long as the battery lasts, anyway, which is seven or eight hours. According to Unkar, she’s "prone to exaggeration," which often earns her a smack upside the head.) 

“I have the—“ Unkar pauses, and Rey senses his attention on her too. _I’m being indiscreet,_ she’s tempted to snap. _Just like you wanted._ “—stuff,” he finishes lamely. “In the kitchen.” He clears his throat. "Sir."

After a moment of tense silence, Unkar retreats. Rey focuses so intensely on the game that her vision blurs. The man's still _there._ She’s not sure what his problem is, but she knows Unkar will slap her silly if she makes any noise. It’s moments like these she’s glad she has no voice. Removes any temptation to spit curses or scream for them to leave her the hell alone. 

Finally, the man crosses the room. He slows down as he nears the sofa, and Rey tenses despite herself. What does he want? She’s not doing anything! Adults don’t play _Animal Crossing,_ so it can’t be the game he’s interested in. Maybe he wants to steal one for _his_ kid. 

But he disappears into the kitchen without a word. Rey sniffs the air and makes a face. A thick, pungent scent follows in his wake. Probably weed. She doesn’t understand the appeal. Unkar made her smoke a blunt once when she was twelve, and she almost coughed a lung out. He left her alone after that. 

Well, he _did_ force her to try coke a month later. That was...unpleasant. 

She ignores the low rumble of their voices in the kitchen. Her island needs a lot of work, and even with four hundred hours of gameplay under her belt she still has much to do. Cleaning up weeds and planting flowers is one of her favorite activities. Roses are her top choice, but she loves pansies too. The hybrid colors are pretty. 

At some point, the man pauses in the doorway of the kitchen. He leans against the frame, watching her play. She doesn’t look up. It’s best not to give men like him attention, especially because he’s not even doing anything. He probably doesn’t have to work hard to be noticed. 

The familiar sound of a lighter flaring to life cuts through the oppressive silence. Out of the corner of her eye, Rey sees the man extract a slim cylinder from a small metal tin. She wants to say it’s a cigarette, but she knows better—they come in nice packages. Marlboro, Newport, Camel. This is the source of that pungent, grassy smell. 

He lights up, inhaling slowly. Rey tries not to squirm under his gaze. Where the hell is Unkar? Obviously they’re finished whatever they were doing in the kitchen—“We’ve conducted our business,” he'll say with ridiculous gravitas—so why is this stranger lingering? It’s making her uncomfortable. 

She’s sitting cross-legged on the sofa, surrounded by blankets, but she’s only wearing an old t-shirt with socks. The shirt used to belong to Unkar—he threw it at her one day and offered no explanation, but she's never been one to complain. 

The man saunters across the living room and pauses in front of her again. She forces her eyes to remain on the game. He’ll go away. Men are allowed to look, but not touch. Those are Unkar’s rules. 

_Tulips,_ she repeats in her head, naming each type of flower. _Pansies, windflowers, roses, lilies, mums, hyacinths, cosmos, and—_

He sits down on the couch with a heavy grunt. Not the opposite end, but right in the middle. He “man-spreads”—one of Unkar’s regulars, Bazine, taught her that term—and extends his arm along the back of the sofa. She senses his fingers, inches away from her head. It takes everything she has not to glare at him. 

They’re both silent. Rey surreptitiously watches the digital clock display on her Switch. Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty. Hyperaware of his proximity, she doesn't move a muscle. Her fingers hardly twitch on the controls.

Sweat collects on the back of her neck. He’s still smoking. She’s not sure if he’s looking at her anymore, but she doesn’t want to risk the chance of checking. It’s approaching forty-five minutes when Unkar suddenly reappears in the kitchen doorway.

He’s huffing, like he’s just run a marathon. Well, no. That's wrong. If he ever ran that much, he would certainly be dead. So maybe a couple hundred yards. At most. 

Regardless, he’s red-faced and sweating, his cheeks puffed up like a squirrel with acorns in its cheeks. Rey might laugh, but not with a stranger in the house. Unkar swipes an arm across his forehead and looks back and forth between the two of them, eyelids twitching. 

“I hope she hasn’t been bothering you, Mr. Ren.” Unkar looks alarmed and yet also peeved somehow, like his face doesn't know what to do. 

At this, Rey finally lifts her head and scowls. She hasn’t moved so much as an inch this whole time. _Bothering?_ Please. 

Mr. Ren doesn’t answer. He continues smoking, exhaling into the living room like he lives here now. Rey peeks at her guardian’s expression. He doesn’t seem concerned by the chemicals; his piggish eyes are still narrowed on her.

“Rey—“ he growls, face darkening, and she knows he’s about to yell at her to save face. To look important in front of this stranger who is clearly A Big Deal. 

She grinds her teeth and raises a fist. _Not today,_ you jerk, she thinks angrily, shaking her fist from side to side. She doesn’t know sign language, but she’s managed to pick up a few things from the TV. This motion means _no._ A simple, definitive _no._

Unkar sucks in air through his teeth. “ _Now listen here—_ " he bellows, as she continues shaking her fist, furiously now. 

“Relax, Plutt,” Mr. Ren suddenly says, lazily waving a hand to clear the cloud of smoke from his face. “You’ll give yourself a damn heart attack.” 

Unkar deflates immediately, looking taken aback. Satisfied, Rey lowers her fist and returns to her game. Only three more orange pansies and she’ll have an equal amount of all the hybrid colors. 

“Yes,” Unkar simpers, wringing his hands like an anxious housewife, “yes, you’re right. Would you like—“

“Shut up,” Mr. Ren says mildly. “Go find something to do.”

To her great surprise, her guardian hunches his shoulders, casts Rey an unreadable look, and exits out the front door. She watches him go, astonished. Unkar never listens to _anyone._ Never. This supplier must be an even bigger deal than she thought. 

Still, she continues the charade of ignoring him. Her game is much more interesting, and probably far less dangerous, than the man beside her on the couch. Maybe he just wants a moment of silence, some alone time. True, Rey’s here, but people usually forget that. If you can’t speak, you’re pretty much worthless. 

“Rey.” 

Her head jerks up like it's tethered to a string.

Marionette: _noun,_ meaning "a puppet worked from above by strings attached to its limbs." 

The corner of his mouth curves. Up close, Mr. Ren is actually kind of handsome. He has a lot of scars though. On his hands, on his neck, partially covered by tattoos, on the sides of his face. The jagged one cutting across his eye is only the most obvious. He’s decorated with wounds. Her heart clenches painfully in her chest.

She suspects he’s going to ask about Unkar, dig for information, but instead he says, “What are you playing?”

Surprised, Rey blinks and clicks out of the game. She tilts the screen towards him so he can see the words _ANIMAL CROSSING: NEW HORIZONS_ in its bold, bubbly font. 

He nods thoughtfully, studying her face. “You like it?”

She smiles. _Like_ is an inadequate word. It would be better to say she’s in love with this game. Obsessed. It brings her comfort. It makes her eager to wake up in the morning. 

Mr. Ren crumples his blunt on a nearby ashtray. It’s only half-smoked, which she knows is considered a monumental waste. His fingers unexpectedly brush strands of her hair, and Rey flinches nervously. What’s he doing? Her hair probably smells. It’s been a week since she last took a shower. Unkar often forgets to pay the water bill.

“Why don’t you show me?” At her confused blink, he winks playfully and adds, “How to play.”

Oh. That’s… Well, she can do that. Rey clicks on the button to reopen the game, but Mr. Ren touches her shoulder. 

“Why don’t you move over here, honey?” He pats the same cushion he’s sitting on, but she shakes her head adamantly. 

_No, I like this spot._

He considers her for a long moment—so long she fears she’s upset him. Her body tenses again, awaiting a punch or slap. Maybe he’ll drag her to the floor and kick her ribs until they snap like twigs. Unkar did that once when she accidentally dropped a baggie of white powder in the toilet and flushed. Granted, she shouldn’t have even touched the stupid thing, but keeping it in plain view in the medicine cabinet was a dumb decision on his part. Kids are curious. 

Mr. Ren doesn’t do any of these things. Instead, he shifts his bulk over until he’s seated on her cushion, his arm now slung behind her, long fingers gently grazing her shoulder. He’s very warm, and she finds herself relaxing. The apartment is still a few degrees too cold, and the blankets can only do so much. Mr. Ren is like a mini space heater.

Well, maybe not so _mini._

“Better.” Mr. Ren dips his head until his lips are right by her ear. “What do you say, honey?”

She nods, although it’s not entirely true. Her knee is pressed uncomfortably into his thigh, and she has to tilt the console awkwardly so they both can see. Frowning, she adjusts her legs until they’re curled up under her and she’s leaning against Mr. Ren’s side. This way, she doesn’t have to angle. 

Pleased, she smiles up at him. His lips curve in response. This close, his eyes are like dark chocolate flecked with amber. Pretty.

Since she can’t fly on Dodo Airlines to any mystery islands—Unkar refuses to pay the five dollars a month for internet access—she’s forced to scavenge her own island for materials. Mr. Ren absently rubs her shoulder with the tips of his fingers as she runs around searching for iron nuggets. She’s three short. 

He plays with her hair as she builds rivers and cliffs. She taps the screen whenever something exciting happens, and he’ll smile when she does, like a mirror. Occasionally, he’ll ask a question about what she’s doing—“Is that a bug?” “Why do you need wood?”—but otherwise they’re both silent. The cute in-game music plays on a loop, filling the living room with tinkling sound. 

Mr. Ren sighs, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling. “You’re a sweet girl, aren’t you?” 

She ignores him. _Sweet?_ Candy is sweet. 

His lips brush her hair. “How old are you, Rey?”

Without glancing away from the screen, she holds up her index finger, then lays her palm flat.

“Fifteen, huh?” 

She nods. Nook’s Cranny is selling that yellow linoleum she’s been looking for. Two thousand Bells. No big deal though. Since she can’t go anywhere, she’s collected quite a bit of money fishing and hunting butterflies. If only in-game currency translated to real-life money.

“You seem older.”

That’s a lie, but she shrugs anyway. Apparently, when she was just a baby, somebody found her abandoned on the street, nestled in a metal bucket filled with blankets and paper-thin diapers. They brought her to Unkar, who paid for her in cash and drugs. She’s never been to school. She’s only rarely left the house, and never the block they live on. She knows all of Unkar’s clients but frequently forgets their names. He says she’s just stupid, and maybe that’s true, but she only started forgetting things a few years ago when he decided she needed to try "the product." 

“Do you like it here?”

She’s tired of the questions, so she decides to stop responding. He’ll get the idea soon enough. 

“Rey.” Mr. Ren grabs her chin and forces her to look away from the game. The pads of his fingers are rough, his palm calloused. “Focus on me for a second, honey.”

She wrinkles her nose. Why should she? 

“Talk to me.”

Her eyebrows furrow, and she frowns unhappily. What? What does he mean? _Talk._ Is he mocking her? 

Mr. Ren probes her lips with his thumb. His eyes are dark now, almost completely shot through with black, like he’s angry or upset. Rey suppresses a shiver. Aren’t they having a good time? Why does he want her to speak?

Tentatively, she touches the base of her throat. _I can’t,_ she tells him with her eyes. _Don’t you see that? I can’t!_

Impatient to get back to the game, she pulls away, but he doesn’t loosen his grip. “Why don't you lie down?” he suggests suddenly. 

She mulls this over for a second. It's actually a good idea. Maybe then he'll give her some breathing room. 

Rey scootches away from him, and this time he lets her go. Her back comes up against the arm of the sofa, and she draws her legs up in front of her, balancing the Switch on her knees. Her eyes flicker over the top, and she catches Mr. Ren studying her again, his chin propped on a fist. 

_Take a picture, it’ll last longer,_ she wants to snap. That’s from a movie. _Clueless,_ maybe? _She's The Man_? Rey doesn’t remember.

After a considering pause, Mr. Ren’s long arm snakes across the cushion and cuffs her ankle. She stares at his fingers for a long moment before dismissing him. Unkar asked if she was bothering Mr. Ren, but the idiot neglected to consider if maybe _he_ was bothering _her._ Nobody ever asks how she's feeling. 

“How do you win the game?”

Rey shakes her head, exasperated. _You can't. It doesn’t work like that._

“Ah. You don’t know?” His fingers tug on her ankle, gently enough that it doesn’t hurt, which she appreciates. Unkar’s never careful with her. He’ll take and take and take until he’s satisfied, then discard her like...a cigarette butt. 

She allows Mr. Ren to pull her legs straight. He shifts closer on the couch, studying her intently. She wonders what’s so interesting. Unkar tells her constantly that she’s not much to look at, otherwise he would’ve been “lending her out” years ago. Whatever that means. She’s dirty, and her hair’s cut jaggedly because Unkar doesn’t want it too long and they can’t afford to get it done professionally. Not that it matters. Who’s she trying to impress? 

Rey scowls. _Of course I_ know. _This isn’t a game you have to win. Anybody with a brain knows that._

“You must not be very good at it, then,” he muses, and she scoffs loudly. His eyes flicker up from her legs at that. “Something you want to say?”

She rolls her eyes and pointedly ignores him. What a jerk. He’s just messing with her, which is a useless endeavor ( _noun,_ meaning "an attempt to achieve a goal.") She’s champion of ignoring people until they get bored—not-talking occasionally has its perks. 

Mr. Ren sighs and lays his head back against the sofa. She peeks at his neck, where a thick black tattoo swirls close to a prominent vein. A snake, maybe? Or smoke? He apparently _loves_ to smoke. Cigarettes, weed, probably other things too. His clothes reek of it. 

One of her _Animal Crossing_ villagers is offering her a sofa for no reason. She has to pay fifteen hundred bells for it, and she’s trying to decide if this new acquisition will be worth it when she feels something brush her foot. 

Her eyes flick above the console. Mr. Ren’s fingers are grazing her toes, and she instinctively kicks out. What a creep! She’s read about men with foot fetishes. Nasty. (But, according to Bazine, it pays well.) Undeterred, he grabs hold of her heels with both hands and drags her down the length of the sofa. 

Mr. Ren shakes his head, frowning. There’s a mocking tilt to it that doesn’t sit right with her. “Unkar told me you were nice and quiet. Nice girls don’t kick.”

She glares and jams her foot into his thigh. That’s a lie. Unkar would never call her nice. Annoying and stupid, maybe, but definitely not _nice._

Mr. Ren tsks and pushes her legs apart. His huge hands completely encircle her ankles like those heavy prison monitors men on probation or house-arrest are required to wear. There are letters inked over each one of his knuckles. She’s not sure what it says—her vision isn’t very good—but she catches an L and an A. Someone’s name, maybe? More nasty scars dot his wrists and forearms. 

He rises from the couch, and for a hopeful second Rey thinks he’s leaving. The joke’s over—he’s gotten tired of pestering her for attention or...whatever. This is the usual outcome for such encounters, and she’s relieved it’s still the case here. This man is big and scary and dangerous. Even Unkar’s afraid of him. Her guardian practically ran from the condo with his tail tucked between his pudgy legs. 

But Mr. Ren kneels on the sofa, pushing her knees aside to accommodate his bulk, and she realizes he’s not leaving after all. 

Rey purses her lips and stares determinedly at the game. When in doubt, ignore and pretend and "narrow your focus." (There was a live meditation session on one of those foreign language channels a few weeks ago, and because Unkar wasn't home and she was bored out of her mind, she joined in. _Manifesting positivity_ has since become a daily task.)

Rey planned to decorate more of her island today, but Mr. Ren’s apparently intent on derailing those plans. She’s a little irritated. What does he even _want?_ She doesn’t sell drugs like Unkar, and she certainly doesn’t use them—not after those first few times as a kid when she almost fucking _died_ because Unkar gave her the wrong dose. 

Idiot: _noun,_ meaning "a person of low intelligence." See also: jackass, fool, simpleton, bonehead, dipshit, peabrain.

Mr. Ren, unconcerned by her twisted expression and obvious reluctance, starts at the base of her ankles and runs his hands up her calves. The friction creates an immediate, searing warmth, and she shivers hard. 

He pauses at her knees, big hands cupping her knobby kneecaps. She senses his eyes on her face again, but she keeps it blank. _Don’t give them a response,_ she reminds herself. _That's all they want. Encouragement._ The door to Nook’s Cranny chimes as she enters the shop for the six-billionth time. 

“Oh no,” he murmurs, amused, squeezing her kneecaps. “Are you ignoring me? Is that what's going on here?” 

Rey grinds her teeth and buys an anthurium plant. 

“You know,” he continues conversationally, stroking the soft skin behind her knees with his thumbs, “my parents ignored me as a kid. Most of the time, they forgot I was there.”

He squeezes harder, and her left eye twitches. Um, _ow_? 

“That kind of shit hurts.” He leans down, squeezing until the pain becomes unbearable. His expression doesn’t change—it doesn’t look as if he’s exerting any energy at all. “Rey.”

She blinks back tears and meets his eyes. Her lower lip trembles, and she tries to move her legs, but his grip is firm. Why is he _hurting_ her? She hasn't done anything bad. 

His eyes scour her face, searching for an answer. She’s not sure what the question is. Or maybe she missed it. Unkar always accuses her of "being so goddamn oblivious." 

Apparently satisfied now that her attention’s on him, Mr. Ren releases her knees and smooths his hands down her thighs. He hikes up her legs until they fall to either side of him. Air hisses through her teeth. 

“When you speak to me, you call me Kylo.” He unzips the fly of his jeans while she stares at him, confused. _I can’t call you anything, or did you forget?_ He smiles, reading her mind, and winks. “Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head. We’ll work on that.” 

Rey tightens her hold on the Switch when he lifts her hips and settles her bottom in his lap. It’s an awkward position; her neck’s bent at an uncomfortable angle. She pushes against the cushion, squirming. 

Mr. Ren pushes up her dirty t-shirt to expose her private parts—Unkar doesn’t believe in undergarments—and lightly slaps her between the legs. Her mouth opens in a shocked O. What the hell is his _problem_?

“Stay right where you are,” he says mildly. Licking the pad of his index finger, he inserts it without warning, and her hips buck at the intrusion. “Not wet enough,” he decides, withdrawing. 

Rey’s confused. Isn’t he here for drugs? That’s why all of Unkar’s guests stop by—they either need a fix or...something else. She’s heard the word “distribution” thrown around a few times. A few months ago she looked it up in her precious water-damaged dictionary; apparently it means “the action of sharing something out among a number of recipients,” so really, it’s just a fancy word for “selling.” 

Connect the fucking dots.

Drug dealer: _noun,_ meaning "a person who sells illegal substances." See also: Unkar Plutt. 

She pokes his forearm to get his attention. Kylo raises his eyebrows, and his head tilts. It might remind her of a puppy if the gesture wasn't so patronizing. 

Right. How to—

But then she remembers the game in her hand. Oh, duh. She quickly brings up the keyboard and types out, _What do you want?_ It takes a minute because her fingers are shaking, but for some reason he waits. She turns the Switch around and shows him.

He laughs, which strikes her as odd. What about her question is funny? She frowns at the screen, wondering if she mistyped something. Unkar's voice slurs in her head: _Stupid little orphan girl._

“This isn’t your first time,” he murmurs—not a question. “Unkar’s taken you for a few... What does he call it? _Test runs._ ”

Rey blinks. Well, yeah, but that’s the cost of living here. He’ll leave her alone for a while afterward, too. Sometimes weeks will pass before he lumbers into her bedroom and locks the door behind him. She knows better than to fight. It's over much quicker when she just lies spread-eagled on the mattress like a dead body. All those daytime criminal investigation shows have shown her how to make it convincing. 

Kylo sighs impatiently at her blank look. His calloused fingers brush her cheek. “Just play your little game, honey, okay? Let me do the work.” 

Rey shrugs indifferently. Fine. 

She plays her game, ignoring the light feel of his fingers as they stroke her private bits. The skin of his hands is rough, but he touches her carefully, pulling back when she tenses, pushing deeper when she relaxes. His other hand rests on her knee, occasionally squeezing whenever her pussy walls clamp around his fingers. 

_Pussy._ She’s looked that word up in the dictionary too. It means cat, as in _pussycat,_ but it's also a casual term for a woman’s vagina. Noun, meaning "the female genitalia in sexual intercourse." Not that she necessarily needs the official context. When Unkar’s sweating and grunting over her, he’ll spit that word like a curse, his eyes fixed between her legs as he clumsily bumps their hips together. 

"Young pussy," he’ll groan, piggish eyes glazed and rolling. "Gotta break you in."

She blocks these memories out before they scratch more than the bare surface. In her mind, she imagines constructing a wall. One time, years and years ago, when she couldn’t have been older than five, Unkar dragged her through a store called Target. In the kid’s section, she found plastic building blocks, thick and colorful and light enough for a toddler to toss around. 

Even then, Rey knew she could use those blocks. Not to build a blanket fort or castle where she might pretend a prince was waiting to rescue her from far below. There was no prince. There was just Rey, and Unkar, and she would use those blocks to hide from him. To create an impenetrable wall which he could not bulldoze his way through. To disappear. To retreat to a safe space where he couldn't reach. 

Now, she stacks those colorful toy blocks around the memories of her guardian and the visits he pays when he’s feeling lonely or frustrated or just plain bored. She forces the memories to adhere to the confines of her invisible walls, and she forgets again. 

Kylo’s finger rubs the secret little nub between her legs, and pleasure tingles down to her toes. She shifts her hips, aching. That’s nice— _really_ nice. No one's ever that gentle with her body. She meets his eyes again. _More of that, please._

“Why don’t you take this off?” he murmurs, disrupting the quiet. She’s silenced the _Animal Crossing_ audio, even though that means she can’t hear when a gift balloon floats over the island. 

He tugs patiently at the hem of her oversized t-shirt, and Rey drags her gaze from the game. It doesn’t matter to her whether she’s naked or not, so she shrugs. He lifts it over her belly, her breasts—and pauses, examining her ribcage. There are quite a few scars on the skin stretched taut over her ribs—places where Unkar kicked until something broke. She doesn’t like to remember that either, so the building blocks reappear to stack it away. 

Kylo helps her out of the threadbare shirt, carefully maneuvering her arms. She concentrates on not dropping the Switch. If Unkar finds so much as a single scratch on the screen, he’ll beat her bloody. _Take it slow,_ she tells herself, with considerable anxiety. _No room for mistakes._

“Much better.” He studies her naked body for a long minute. His hands stray towards her breasts, and he presses the pad of one thumb down on her nipple. Her skin flushes with heat, but she still doesn’t react. It’s best to ignore him until it’s over. She'll repeat that until she's blue in the face. 

Idiom: _noun,_ meaning "a group of words established by usage of having a meaning not deducible from those of the individual words." See also: raining cats and dogs, see the light, blue in the face.

The couch creaks as Kylo leans down, bracing his hands on either side of her waist. She senses him staring at her again—waiting for a reaction, maybe—but she doesn’t raise her eyes. No offense to him, but _Animal Crossing_ is far more interesting. Still, her...pussy...throbs as his crotch rubs against her bare skin. The rough fabric scrapes back and forth, just a little, and the friction makes her toes curl. Feels good. She doesn't mind if he does more of that. 

His mouth pulls even with her collarbone. Her fingers pause on the buttons as he sets his lips to her skin. A shiver rips through her body, and those lips—warm and soft and unusually plush for a man—curve into a smile. He kisses his way up her neck, pausing at the hollow of her throat to inhale deeply. She wonders absently what she smells like. Dirt and grime, probably. Nothing special.

His hands dip low until she can’t see them anymore, and he plays with her slit until she’s squirming. There’s wetness between her legs, and every time he moves his fingers it makes a slick, gushing sound. His eyes grow increasingly dark. 

It’s pointless trying to play the game now, but Kylo seems to like that she’s distracted. He adjusts himself, pushing his forehead into her shoulder as he raises his hips off the couch, and a moment later there’s warmth and pressure at the apex of her thighs. 

Rey understands what comes next and obediently spreads her legs as wide as they’ll go. He’s much bigger than Unkar, she can tell by feel alone, and although it takes several seconds of careful probing, his cock finally catches at her entrance, and he sinks inside with a relieved sigh. 

“You like that, honey?” He rolls his hips as he spears her to the cushion, and her mouth opens reflexively. Wow. _Much_ bigger. “You're so tight around my dick. Christ.”

Rey ducks her head, holding back a blush. Unkar and his men never talk. They grunt and hiss and order her to roll this way or that, but they never actually _talk._ It’s strange to hear someone narrating. 

Her attention returns to the game. She’s in the middle of shakily planting a line of trees to separate one section of the island from another, but for obvious reasons it’s taking much longer than planned. At this rate, her island will never be finished. 

She’s forced to raise her arms and play with Kylo’s head between them as he kisses up her throat. His teeth scrape her jaw, and her fingers tremble and slip on the buttons. 

He’s thick and heavy, but Rey doesn’t mind the sensation. She folds her legs around his thighs, breathing sharply when his balls bunch against her pussy. He’s all the way inside her now. Kind of a miracle, really. 

Kylo pushes until she makes a small sound of distress— _no, no, uncomfortable!_ —and reluctantly withdraws an inch or two. He begins to move, one hand braced on the arm of the sofa behind her head, stroking in and out experimentally, testing her reactions. Her cheek twitches, and her hold on the Switch becomes precarious, hands unsteady, but she maintains an unaffected air. 

_This isn’t new,_ it says derisively. _You’re nothing special._

Kylo doesn’t seem to like that and abruptly snaps his hips forward, burying himself so deep she sees not only stars but entire galaxies. Her mouth opens again, this time in a silent scream, but he ignores it and pounds into her with sudden fury. The cushions sink under the weight of his thrusts, and the sofa itself creaks rhythmically. 

Her toes curl again, and she whines low in her throat. He’s too rough—much too rough. Reminds her of Unkar. Her wall of building blocks trembles. Her head bobs as he pushes into her again and again, making it impossible to focus on the screen. Everything is blurry, a confusing wash of rainbow colors. The Switch nearly slips from her fingers, but she grasps it tightly, unwilling to let go. 

“You’ll be—so good for me,” Kylo manages, eyes glazed as he pumps between her legs. His energy is frantic, almost manic now. This isn't the same man who walked through her front door an hour ago. 

She finds herself unnerved by that. Unkar always seems...disinterested. Almost as if he’s carrying out a task simply to check it off. Like it’s expected of him to heave and sweat over her for twenty minutes a week. Like he's being forced into it. 

Kylo’s lips seek her own, and although she tries to evade, he’s simply much too large. He seals their mouths together, muffling her gasp. For a long minute, she tastes beer and cigarettes and something spicy like cologne. He doesn’t taste bad, exactly, just unfamiliar. When he finally breaks away, she gulps in fresh air, ignoring the heat of his breath on her neck. 

She licks her lips and tastes him on her tongue. 

The friction between her legs becomes unbearable. She doesn’t try to hold back—as soon as she feels the pressure mount she falls into it. Her thighs shake around his hips, and Kylo buries his face in the curve of her neck, groaning between his teeth. The Switch rests on his back now, dangling limply from one hand. 

Kylo’s strokes lengthen, and his breathing shortens into sharp, shallow exhales. She tilts her head back to see his fingers digging into the sofa arm, white-knuckled. He’s nearly finished, she realizes with surprise. 

Huh. He doesn't waste any time.

Still, Kylo seems to hesitate. There’s a long moment between one stroke and the next where his cock is only half-submerged in her pussy. Maybe he’s going to withdraw and cover her belly in wet, sticky ropes—men like to do that sometimes. If they want to squirt inside her, Unkar insists they wear a condom. 

But there’s an odd look on his face, and without warning Kylo sinks back into her and pumps until he cums. He only manages two thrusts before his body goes lax. 

She’s never admitted this to anyone—and why would she, it’s not like Unkar and his minions even listen—but she _loves_ this feeling. Being stuffed full, filled with heat and wrapped around a man’s heavy body—it’s a nice sensation. It’s not often her body’s satisfied in this way—her own fingers can only do so much—but when Unkar or whoever finishes, she can pretend for a time that she’s safe. That someone cares. 

Despite this fantasy, Rey lies completely still while he finishes. It’s best not to interfere. Sometimes the men don’t like to be touched. She thinks maybe they want to forget about the whole thing as soon as they get what they came for. They’ll put pressure on her throat, on her hips—pinning her down, making sure she can’t move. 

It hits her then that she can feel the stickiness between her legs, the warmth, the slick glide of his length. 

Unprotected: _adjective,_ meaning "not kept safe from harm or injury" or "(of sex) engaged in without a condom." See also: bareback, raw dog, breeding. 

That one's from Urban Dictionary. 

Cautiously, Rey rests her wrists on Kylo's broad shoulders, her hands slightly elevated. The Switch is too heavy to hold in the air though, so she braces it on the back of his shoulder, which is bunched and corded with muscle. If she closes her eyes, it’s easy to imagine he’s giving her a hug. 

He’ll probably leave now.

Sure enough, Kylo levers himself off the sofa, but not before he bites the side of her neck. Not hard enough to break skin, but definitely enough to hurt. She flinches, which makes him laugh. His voice is low, husky, when he rasps, “Little biting never hurt anybody.”

Rey eyes him skeptically. She doesn’t know about _that._ Didn’t Ted Bundy mark his victim’s butt cheeks with his teeth? She read a book about him last year. _Narcissist_ is actually a good word to describe Unkar too. 

Then Kylo adds, “You’ll get used to it,” and Rey’s stomach turns. What? What does that mean? 

He heaves himself off the sofa, adjusting his jeans. She catches a glimpse of his cock—thick and long and smeared with white and just a smattering of red—before he stuffs it back into his briefs. The bulge is still obvious, especially when he tugs the zipper up, and Rey quickly looks away. That was _inside_ her? No wonder her muscles are already sore. 

Kylo whistles, and she glances up from the Switch. It’s been so long since she moved the controls that the screen’s gone dark. Hopefully the data automatically saved. 

“Let’s go.” He jerks his head at the front door, eyes bright again. Chocolate, not onyx. “I got one more place to stop.” 

The words don’t mean anything to her, so Rey returns her eyes to the game. What’s it to her if he has to go and bother some other drug dealer? 

There’s silence for almost a full minute, which unnerves her. Usually _she’s_ the one who doesn’t make any noise, who wields silence like a weapon. Peering over the console, she sees Kylo standing in the same spot, now with hands on his hips. 

“I see,” he says, sounding amused. “We doing this the hard way, then?”

Rey crams herself into the corner of the sofa. She’s annoyed by his persistence. He already squirted inside her—what else does he want? She’s not exactly a pillar of riveting conversation. Leave her alone to play her game. Unkar will be back soon, which means there’s only a little bit of time left for her to have fun before he ruins it. 

Kylo sighs and rubs a hand over his jaw. He has a nice face. Really sharp and defined. Strong. But she doesn’t want to notice any of that, so she presses X on the controller to open her inventory. 

“Enough of that.” He’s by her side in one stride, casually knocking the game out of her hands. It tumbles to the floor. He grabs her chin and forces her to meet his eyes. “Up and at ‘em, honey.”

The Switch is face-down on the dirty, ant-infested carpet. Rey sees red. She snaps at his wrist, teeth bared, hitting his arm with the flat of her palm and scrambling away from him. _Asshole, asshole, asshole!_

Kylo still wears an amused smile, but his face is hard now. “Guess you know how to bite after all, huh.”

 _Go away,_ she signs. It’s a clumsy effort, but her flailing hands get the point across. 

Rolling his eyes, Kylo snatches her forearm out of the air and yanks her off the sofa. She stumbles, legs numb from lying prone all day, and nearly falls into him. Her head is abuzz with anger. Who the hell does this guy think he is? She’s not supposed to leave the fucking _condo_. 

“Not going without you,” he says mildly, ignoring her fists as easily as he would circling flies. “Might as well get used to it, baby girl.”

Rey kicks the side of his leg and punches him in the stomach, wild, frantic. Not leaving. Not going anywhere. No, no, _no_!

His fingers loosen, and she backs away. Snarling, she places her fingers at the base of her throat and flicks them up the length of her neck. _Fuck you!_

Kylo smiles, but again, it’s not very nice. “You think I don’t know what that means?” His eyes drop down the length of her naked body and slowly, pointedly, make their way back up. “And for the record, you _will_ fuck me, baby. Again and again and again until you can't fucking see straight.”

He grabs her bicep, quick as a striking viper, and tows her across the room like she weighs no more than a puppy. She catches herself on the doorframe, nails breaking, and refuses to let go, so he hooks an arm around her waist and throws her over his shoulder. 

The Switch still lies face-down on the living room floor. It’s the last thing she sees before the front door slams shut. Tears cascade in a storm down her cheeks, and she opens her mouth in a wordless howl.

Kylo sighs, grunting as she furiously kicks her feet. She’s not supposed to leave the condo! Unkar’s going to get upset, and when he’s upset, his fists start swinging. She has the aching bones and faded bruises to prove it. 

And dammit, she’s still _naked_! 

_Let me go, let me go!_ Rey pounds her fists against his broad back, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He strides down the front walk to a clean car with tinted windows. Is this a kidnapping? Will she be ransomed? Unkar doesn’t have any money, and he doesn’t care enough about her to go looking. 

Sobs catch in her chest. The Switch is inside. Possibly broken. She’ll never get to play her game again. It doesn’t matter where he brings her, the end result will be the same—she’ll be forced to stare at the walls all day and count the little flecks on the ceiling. Just like before. 

She finally goes limp, tears soaking the back of Kylo’s shirt. The spot between her legs is sore, and her chest hurts. It feels like a rattlesnake’s slowly tightening around her lungs. She doesn’t care where she’s going—it can’t be any worse than living with Unkar. But the thought of having nothing to distract her as the hours tick-tick-tick by is something she finds terrifying. Maybe she’ll lose her mind again. Forget everything.

Kylo opens the door to the backseat. “Are you done?”

She hangs limply over his shoulder, staring at the cracked sidewalk. Despair hovers like a stormcloud. One good thing in her life, and he's ripping that away from her too. 

He reluctantly sets her on her feet, and she staggers against the side of the car, cowering. It’s shiny. New. She doesn’t know brands or anything, but it certainly doesn’t look like the cars around here—beat up trucks and old convertibles with a trash bag in place of a window. That kind of thing. 

Rey fixes her eyes on the ground. Not fair. She wants her Switch. It’s the only thing she loves. Not fair, not fucking fair. 

Well, there's her dictionary too, but those are everywhere. Much more attainable. 

Kylo palms the back of her neck, forcing her to meet his eyes. “What’s wrong? Hm? You don’t like me, baby girl?”

He’s mocking her, Rey realizes, which makes the whole situation ten times worse. She doesn’t even _care_ about him. Stupid, selfish asshole. He can probably afford a hundred Switches, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who buys gifts.

She braces her hands on his chest and pushes. _Go away. I hate you. Go away!_

Kylo laughs under his breath and draws her into him, pressing her firmly against his body. She rubs her nose on his nice cotton shirt, sniffling. He’s warm, at least. And strong. Nobody will bother her if he tells them to leave her alone. 

They stand like that for a few minutes, the car idling behind them, her sobs dwindling to soft hiccups. Kylo runs his fingers through her hair, murmuring nonsense. His touch calms her down, and she rubs her eyes with a fist, blinking owlishly in the late afternoon sunshine. 

“No more tears,” he coos, wiping her cheeks clean. His eyes drift over his shoulder to the condo. “What’s got you so upset? You want that damn game or—"

Rey immediately perks up. _Yes,_ she thinks, clutching the front of his shirt. _Yes, yes, that’s what I want. Go get it!_

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” He cups her cheek, and her eyes drift down the column of his neck. Thick and muscled. She bets nobody’s ever tried to strangle _him._

Rey bounces on the balls of her feet, impatient now. What’s he waiting for, an invitation? 

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Kylo laughs and opens the back door of the car. He lifts her around the waist, sets her down on the plush leather seat, and curls his hand around her throat. Menacing, this time. A threat. “Stay here. If you’re a good girl, I’ll even get you another game. That fucking music gave me a headache.”

Obedient: _adjective,_ meaning "submissive to another's will." See also: Rey Niima. 

She nods enthusiastically. As soon as he shuts the door, she clambers up on her knees and places her hands flat on the window glass. Kylo disappears inside, and she feels a flicker of worry. What if he breaks it? What if he doesn’t come back out? What if he gives her the Switch but takes away the game? What if, what if, what if—

But he exits the condo less than a minute later, and when he hands her the Switch, the little _Animal Crossing_ card is still nestled in its innocuous black pocket. She squeals, fingers fluttering, and settles back on the seats, clicking the ON button. The tightness in her chest dissipates. Everything’s going to be okay now. She has what she needs.

Kylo mutters something to the driver, and as they pull away from the curb, he lights another cigarette. A real one this time, not a blunt. She wrinkles her nose anyway, and he rolls his eyes but cracks open the window. Smells like burnt gasoline. 

_Unkar?_ she types on the Switch’s keypad. 

Kylo shakes his head. “Don’t worry about him.”

Rey bites her bottom lip. _Where are we going?_

“Not for you to worry about, honey. You’re with me now.” Kylo taps his cigarette on the window. Ash cascades down the other side. “I’ll take real good care of you.” He winks. "Pinky swear."

She shrugs. So long as he doesn’t hit her if she happens to, like, breathe too loud. 

Ten minutes into the ride, Rey senses him studying her again. Sure enough, he transfers the smoldering cigarette to his other hand and wraps an arm around her waist to slide her into his lap. She frowns, casting an irritated look over her shoulder, but he simply kisses the top of her head and stares out of the window at the passing scenery—nothing special—blowing smoke through the crack. 

Kylo pats her bare thigh. “Nice and quiet for me, Rey. That's all I ask.” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth like she's done something amusing again. 

She ignores his words, and the purring car, and the cigarette smoke. No offense to him, really, but he’s still not as interesting as her game. 

There's a word in the middle of the Merriam-Webster's Dictionary that means _to control or influence,_ but at the moment she can't exactly remember what it is. Ah, well. It'll come to her later. In the meantime—what did Kylo say before?

He'll take real good care of her.

**Author's Note:**

> **d-dictionary kink?**
> 
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